Run Hippo, Run!

As a general rule, setting high expectations for an event can, at times, lead to a terribly unclimatic finish. Don’t get me wrong, I am the first to be perturbed when I find myself in the company of a chap who expects each engagement to be, no matter how spectacular or mind-blowing, a complete flop. I must admit though, my expectations failed to soar for our proposed “hippopotamus viewing expedition.”
The schedule was to go a lake where hippopotamus’ were known to pop up, and, if you were lucky, one might catch a glimpse of the enormous beasts emerging from the lake for a breath of fresh air. At a great distance, I might add. We were told to bring our binoculars. The whole scheme seemed suspicious and bound to lead to disappointment.
So I went, sinking in the cool evening. I looked at the waves ebb and flow. I admired the lilies in the water. I listened to the leaves above rustling in the breeze. In short, my mind was focused elsewhere.
A fellow next to me had followed instructions and brought his binoculars. Currently he paused and began the lengthy production of removing the object of interest from the encasement. He believed a hippo could be mulling off yonder. Whether it was a hippo, a log, or the Lockness Monster, it looked the same to me. That is, a small brown obtrusion in the middle of the lake. I squinted my eyes to detect any movements. The loon was still struggling to get those dashed caps of the lens. Then, slow and steady, like an old man sipping soup at a deli, a giant hippo emerged ten meters from our present location.
Now, when I say a “giant” hippo, I mean not to mislead you all. This was not some freak of extraordinary size. I suppose it was a hippo of average stature. I simply forgot the colossal proportions of an ordinary hippo. I don’t have a thesaurus handy to aid my description, so I will spare you all a sub-par account. Gigantic? Of course. Gargantuan? Right ho. Behemeth? Without question. But what good does that do you? Not much, I guess. Let your creative powers take over. Imagine the most repulsive, beastly mess you can fathom.
In any case, there we were. What’s the expression I seek? Ah yes, deer in the headlights. If provoked, those portly creatures can reach speeds of up to 30 M.P.H. Why, I could have been flattened thinner than the infamous Winquist Swedish pancakes (more thin and unquestionably more delicious than the average flapjack), if the hippo up and decided to go for an evening stroll. A string of harmless explicatives may have been uttered undereath my breath. I roused Mr. Bifocals, who had been setting his digital focus on the who-knows-what out in no-man’s land, previously oblivious to the Goliath in front of us. We were a bit stirred. Our hysteria soon spread to the masses.
Our trainer was also flustered. He threw out the idea of speaking French and spoke in rushed English.
“Hurry! We must...run! Hippo! The hippo...come! He become angry! He run! We become...run over! Everyone, please run!”
So we ran. Quite merrily I might add. Deep down, I suppose I knew a rather minute chance existed of that beast running after us, but it was still enough to get the blood flowing and the heart thumping. It was as if we were escaping some adolescent mischief. High knees, clenched fists, a few hoots, more hollars. Dare I say it, I could have been a young lad out on the school yard.